


The Heart Wants

by come_slyther



Series: Love is an ever-fixed mark [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Living Together, M/M, Pining Harry Potter, pub nights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 19:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16898700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/come_slyther/pseuds/come_slyther
Summary: Everyone knows Harry Potter would do anything for his friends. So when Draco needs a place to stay, it makes perfect sense to offer him a room at Grimmauld Place.Now Harry just has to get over the fact that he's arse over tits for the prat.





	The Heart Wants

**Author's Note:**

> I've had bit of writer's block lately so I took some cuts, drabbles and scenes I'd written and stitched them together into this - apologies if it seems a little disjointed!
> 
> I hope you enjoy and thanks in advance for reading! x

“You have got to be joking,” Ron huffed as he jogged next to Harry. “You let Malfoy _move in_? Are you an absolute masochist?”

Harry chuckled, a little breathlessly. They were onto the fifth and final mile of the day, and even though the physical side of Auror training kept them in good shape, Harry’s thighs were starting to feel like lead and there was an unwelcome sharpness in his side.

“Yeah, he moved in last week.”

“Why? Wasn’t he living with Parkinson?”

“Yeah, but then Gin moved in with them - you know how Draco always says that flat’s too small for two as it is – and with you and ‘Mione gone, Grimmauld’s been feeling pretty empty.” _Pant, pant._ “Made sense to have him move in with me. There’s a whole floor that I don’t even use.” Harry felt a soft vibration against his thigh, where his wand was holstered. _Thank you, sweet baby Salazar._ “Half a mile to go.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Ron stuttered. “Anyway, don’t try and pretend” – he took a fortifying breath – “you aren’t letting him move in because you’re- well, you’re kind of into him, aren’t you mate?”

Harry chose that moment to focus on controlling his breathing instead of humouring Ron with a response. While it was true that Harry had developed an appreciation for Draco’s thundercloud eyes and razor-sharp wit, he wasn’t sure he wanted to fully admit it to anyone but himself. Anyway, they were _friends_ now, and friends let friends live with them when they had nowhere else to go (or whatever the saying was). He’d done exactly the same for Ron and Hermione when they’d needed somewhere to stay while they searched for the perfect flat. And Grimmauld really was a little lonely, with Ron and Hermione gone and Kreacher at Hogwarts.

 _Almost there_ , he told himself as they rounded the corner onto Grimmauld Place. His lungs were definitely on fire now, as they broke into a sprint towards Harry’s house, eating up the last few metres. They finally slowed to a stop on the pavement outside where Number Twelve was squeezing its way into existence, Harry bending over as he tried to catch his breath.

“Why do we do this to ourselves?” he gasped, doing an excellent impression of a crup in labour. His vision charm was starting to fade, a slight blur settling over the sight of London in the distance. Ron, whose fair skin had turned a frankly worrying shade of red, merely panted in response and leaned back against the doorway, sweat running down his temples and dripping off the tip of his long nose.

“Harry,” Ron said, once he was able to breathe. “You know Hermione and I don’t mind if you’re into Malfoy, right? Wait, maybe that’s the wrong way of putting it. We support it? _Argh_ this is why Hermione does the talking.” He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced, although Harry wasn’t sure if it was from the sweat or the conversation. “Basically, don’t feel like you can’t tell us you fancy him because you think we might get upset. He’s alright.”

Harry gave him a small smile; Ron and Hermione really were _the_ best friends. “I know what you mean, mate. And thanks.” He clapped Ron on the shoulder and gestured to his front door. “Coming in for a cuppa? Draco might even be home.”

When they walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, Harry couldn’t help the burst of warmth in his chest or the way his lips quirked up at the sight of Draco Malfoy, barefoot and _in Levis_ , humming to himself lightly as he made a cup of tea. He’d only been living with Harry for a few days, but it seemed like he’d been there forever already.

And if Harry blushed violently when Ron muttered something that sounded like _definitely into him_ , well, it was just bloody warm in the kitchen, okay?

-*-

On the first day of their eighth year at Hogwarts, Draco had stopped Harry in the courtyard to deliver a quiet apology to somewhere in the vicinity of Harry’s shoes and thank him for speaking at his trial.

He’d shrugged in response, feeling uncomfortable in the presence of the other boy, remembering an arm wrapped tight around his waist, terrified shrieks and the smell of burning. He’d owed Narcissa Malfoy a Life Debt and his testimony at her and Draco’s trials had allowed him to fulfil that: with Lucius serving a life sentence in prison and a majority of the Malfoy assets, including the Manor, seized by the Ministry, Narcissa was allowed to use what was left to move to France. Draco’s probation stipulated that he assist with the rebuilding of Hogwarts before returning to finish his NEWTs (including a compulsory Muggle Studies course). Their lives were their own for the most part, and his debt was cleared.

Feeling the gaze of everyone in the courtyard fixed on them, Harry had brusquely thanked Draco for not identifying him at the Manor and walked away, trying to separate out the cacophony of emotions he was feeling; he didn’t _hate_ Draco, having come to the realisation that the only son of Lucius Malfoy probably had about as much choice in his role in the war as Harry’d had. On top of that, Harry imagined being housemates with Voldermort and his _giant man-eating snake_ was probably quite the motivator when it came to doing things you didn’t really want to. But he couldn’t deny the fresh, sharp pain of losing Fred and Remus and Tonks and _Colin fucking Creevey._ He couldn’t ignore the sadness he felt when he thought about saying goodbye to a grief-stricken Andromeda two weeks before, when she and Teddy had moved to live with a distant relative from the Tonks side _in Australia_. While they’d all made terrible choices in the past – Harry felt a boiling shame when he remembered that blindly-cast _Sectumsempra_ – six-and-a-bit years of fierce schoolyard animosity hadn’t magically disappeared.

It was being paired in Potions that kick-started a tentative friendship between the two. Over the course of the year, Harry learnt that Draco was quite witty when he stripped away the layer of cruelty. He showed a surprisingly gentle patience when helping Harry through their practical assignments and would look over his essays when they studied in the library together, providing insightful and constructive comments in his elegant, looping script. The haughty pride that a younger Draco had shrouded himself in gave way to a quieter confidence and a _conscientiousness -_ even though he'd still have the occasional prattish moment, at least he now acknowledged when he was doing it. And there was something about the way he looked now, with his hair no longer slicked back stiffly, softening his features; Harry’s stomach would twist oddly when Draco would allow a rare smile, a dimple forming in his right cheek.

One moment from their Eighth Year stayed with Harry well after he and Draco parted on platform nine and three quarters with a firm handshake and a half-serious _see you around, yeah._ They’d been walking back from the library the night before their first exam, ribbons of moonlight falling through the large lead-paned windows that looked out onto the grounds. They paused at the turning down to the dungeons, Draco’s face flooded white and silver as he said goodnight with an easy smile. Harry had stood there, looking at Draco with his marble skin and his liquid eyes and his _dimples_ , and he’d felt a sudden and fierce desire to pull Draco in by his tie and kiss him.

Instead, he’d shoved his hand in his pockets, muttered a short but friendly _Night, Malfoy_ and walked back to the Gryffindor common room, his stomach in knots and his heart flying against his chest.  

-*-

Harry had spent the following year renovating Grimmauld Place, before he and Ron started the Auror training programme. He’d seen a Mind Healer, finding it helpful to talk to someone other than Hermione and Ron, someone who could tell him – from a professional point of view – that the broken pieces inside of him could be healed. When he felt more stable, he’d begun to date a few blokes, having admitted to himself and his friends that he liked them just as much as he liked women. A photo of him kissing Justin Finch-Fletchley led to a media storm and a few nasty articles from the Prophet; a printed apology followed swiftly when Harry’s call for a _bit of bloody privacy_ was echoed by Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. After that, he was largely left in peace to expand his knowledge of wine from colours to grapes and vintages, and learn new skills in Auror training, such as not running headfirst into danger and the official way to write a suitably dull report.

Draco had re-entered his life a couple of years later, when Gringotts had taken the Malfoy heir on to work alongside Bill as a Curse-Breaker in London, sub-contracted to the Ministry of Magic. It appeared that his _talents at untangling intricate and delicate spellwork_ (as Bill diplomatically put it) were in high demand, as the Ministry sought to eradicate any lasting remnants of Voldermort’s second return to power: from destroying Dark objects to returning goblin-made artefacts to Gringotts (because of course the goblins weren’t going to help the Ministry _for free_ ), Draco turned out to have an aptitude and enthusiasm for the job that quickly earned him Bill Weasley’s respect.

The Prophet had, of course, speculated extensively on the Ministry's decision to allow an ex-Death Eater access to Dark objects. Ten months later, it was reported that, while examining a music box found during a raid on a suspected Death Eater safe house in West Sussex, Draco Malfoy had thrown a well-timed _Protego_ at Bill Weasley, shielding him from a nasty burning curse. However, instead of absorbing the curse, his shield had deflected it back at him, causing a ribbon of flame to graze his shoulder and burn down his arm with startling speed. Bill’s angry _He saved my life, now can you lot bloody leave him alone_ as he left St Mungo’s was quoted in every major wizarding publication and two weeks later, a fully-healed Draco was invited to Sunday brunch at the Weasley’s.

When Harry Apparated to the Burrow that morning, he was pulled up short by the sight of a familiar shock of white-blonde hair, just a shade darker than the early December snow that had blanketed Ottery St Catchpole overnight. Draco had been standing at the kissing gate in front of the Weasley’s front garden, one hand gripping a tasteful bouquet of wildflowers in a tight fist, the other clenching and unclenching at his side. This uncharacteristically nervous gesture was really quite endearing; even more so was the way Draco bit his plump lower lip as he stared at the Burrow. He didn’t even register Harry’s presence until he tapped him on the shoulder, startling him out of his reverie.

Draco had turned to look at him and Harry had felt a fluttering in his stomach. He looked _good_. He’d put on some weight since school, and Harry couldn’t deny the way his mouth dried at the sight of his broader shoulders and softer face. His skin was clear and creamy, and his eyes – although a little tight around the corners with nerves – were the warm grey of thunderclouds in the summer.

They’d walked inside together, shucking off their coats in the entryway. Harry had taken a moment to admire the way Draco’s chest and stomach filled out his light blue cable-knit jumper, how _solid_ he seemed with his well-built thighs clad in worn jeans. It was a little surprising just how visceral Harry’s reaction to this new Draco was: the men he’d dated before had all been lean (and blonde for the most part) and Harry had often returned to the image of a coltish Eighth-Year Draco in flying gear when he found himself horny and alone. But in that moment, Harry found himself _ferociously_ wanting to be wrapped up in Draco’s arms, pressed against his sturdy body with a handful of his luscious, round arse.

Bill had clapped Draco on the shoulder, who looked politely bewildered as Fleur kissed him twice on each cheek with gusto, exclaiming her thanks for protecting her husband. Arthur had smiled kindly, and Molly had given his arm a quick squeeze before bustling him to the dining table. Draco’s small smile had faltered when George had just stared at him, eventually giving a curt nod. His tension seemed to ease when Ron passed him a plate piled high with fluffy, perfect eggs and Hermione immediately engaged him in a discussion about something intelligent-sounding. All in all, it was a successful brunch with the only hex thrown by Ginny when Ron hogged the bacon.

Afterwards, Harry had been unable to stop thinking about Draco, and so he’d owled him an invite to drinks with Ron and Hermione the following Friday. Between several bottles of wine and an ill-advised round of Firewhiskies, they hashed out their past and navigated uncomfortable conversations about their roles in the war. There had been a tense moment when Draco, slightly tipsy, had pushed the sleeves of his jumper up, freezing when he realised his Mark was on display. The skin had faded from stark black to grey, slightly puckered and standing in relief from the rest of Draco’s creamy, smooth forearm. Where the burning curse had run down his arm, a thick white scar cut right through the skull of the Mark, dissecting the snake in two. Harry looked at it with an abject curiosity; he expected to feel disgust or hatred or even fear, but as he dragged his gaze down to Draco’s shaking hands, he realised the Mark was nothing but that – a mark, and a broken one at that. Voldermort was gone and moving on was a choice that was now available to them.

So, he’d leaned forward and placed his hand on Draco’s arm, trying to convey with his eyes the (rather mature, he felt) realisation he’d just had. Draco swallowed and nodded gratefully, and Hermione took a deep breath before asking _So, Draco, what are your views on goblin ownership rules?_ Harry and Draco rediscovered the easy banter of their Eighth Year once the conversation lightened, and even Ron seemed relaxed and friendly by the end of the night.

There’d been a story tucked away on page nine of the Prophet the next morning, accompanied by a picture of the four of them laughing. Harry had read it with a frown, worried it would be vicious and cruel, but the article had been fairly neutral and even touched positively on Draco’s role as a Curse-Breaker. In fact, the only thing that had caused Harry any concern was the way his photo-self’s eyes lingered just a second too long on a smiling Draco.

Before long, a fortnightly catch-up at the Leaky had been established, and slowly expanded over time to include Ginny, Pansy, Blaise and Luna. Once in a while, they were joined by other Hogwarts alumni and - on one memorable occasion - Professor McGonagall, who threw back a shot of Firewhisky and remained regal and stoic when smoke poured out of her nostrils as if she were some sort of ancient, majestic dragon.

Harry tried not to dwell too much on the way his stomach would flutter when Draco’s shoulder brushed his, or how nice it felt to have Draco throw an arm around him, clumsy and tipsy and shaking with laughter. He was so _solid_ and _there_ and _present_ and Harry found his attraction to Draco growing every time he saw him.

One night, Harry had stepped up to the bar to get a round in and found himself standing next to an attractive, sandy-haired man who promptly offered to buy him a drink.

“Oh, thanks,” Harry had grinned, “but I’m okay. I’m here with friends and it’s my round.”

“Great,” the bloke replied with a wink, “you can buy me one then instead.”

Harry had chuckled – he was rather cute, if the line was a little corny – and added the bloke’s drink to his order.

“I’m Euan,” the guy said with a sweet smile.

“Harry,” he responded, sliding the drink over. They’d started talking about everything and nothing – Euan was visiting from Canada and was refreshingly unaware of Harry's past. Although Harry made it clear it wasn’t going to lead to anything, he enjoyed Euan’s easy manner and dimpled grin, and there was no doubt that had he met Euan a year ago they may well have ended up Apparating out of the Leaky together. Euan was charming and funny, and Harry didn’t even realise he’d been chatting to him for a half-hour or so until Draco appeared at his side and took over levitating the drinks back to the table. He didn’t say anything to either of them, clearly trying not to intrude. When Harry cast a not-quite-discreet look of wistfulness at his retreating friend, Euan had leaned forward and whispered, “you should go back to that lucky guy now, before he gets the wrong idea about us.”

And Harry had gone back to the table, although he felt a flash of irritation when he saw his seat next to Draco had been taken by Ginny. He spent the rest of the evening dropping in and out of several conversations, but none of them were with Draco. He'd wanted to explain that all Draco had interrupted was a friendly conversation and nothing more. But when it came time to leave, Draco simply threw him a lopsided grin and Apparated with a sharp crack, and Harry tried to ignore how it made him feel a little hollow inside.

-*-

In the weeks after that night, it felt as though he barely saw Draco. When the group met for drinks, Draco would always be embroiled in some long-winded discussion on goblin politics with Hermione, or sat by Pansy or Ginny (the two had developed an interesting friendship which seemed to centre on insulting each other, discussing Quidditch and telling wildly embarrassing stories about Pansy). When Harry would jump into these conversations, Draco was perfectly friendly but there was something, an _edge_ , that Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on which made him feel like he’d lost something: gone was the easy touching that had set Harry’s nerves alight, the shoulder nudges and one-armed hugs and drunken leanings. Harry had invited Draco out for lunch once, and received a short _Can’t, sorry, working in the Cotswolds_ in response; Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit rejected, even though he knew Draco had to work remotely on occasion.

One week, Draco was absent from pub night and when Harry asked Pansy where he was, he ended up being subjected to an hour-long discussion about Draco’s dinner date with the _ridiculously handsome barista at the coffee place on Diagon – you know the one that’s been asking him out for ages?_ And Harry had sat there, a rigid smile on his face, feeling like a shite friend for being upset that Draco was on a date with, by all accounts, a decent bloke.

It was a few weeks later that Draco had mentioned finding it difficult to get a decent flat in wizarding London. The two of them had been standing at the mouth of the alley by the Leaky, sharing a clandestine cigarette, Draco having stayed late at the pub for the first time in a while. Their shoulders were touching lightly and it suffused Harry with a warmth that shielded him from the freezing night.

“My _room_ ,” Draco said, slurring ever so slightly, “is technically a closet and we can’t mess about with the wizarding space too much because the building’s so fucking old it’d probably come down. And I really do need to move out of there as soon as I can – hearing your best mate getting shagged six ways to Sunday has already lost its appeal and they’ve only officially been living together for a week.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair and nudging Harry’s shoulder in the process. “It doesn’t help that last five flats I’ve gone to see have suddenly become unavailable once they see who’s interested in renting. And I _know_ Pansy feels bad but she really loves Ginny. This might actually be the first time she’s ever really loved anyone. _Urgh_ I don’t know when I became such a bleeding heart but I _want_ to give her the space to be happy.” Draco blew out a plume of smoke. “Merlin, I’m sorry for ranting, I’m just drunk and tired and I’m sure I’ll find somewhere soon.” He sighed again.

Harry looked over at him. His face was swaddled in shadows from the alleyway, the streetlight on Diagon bringing his pretty features into relief. Where he’d filled out, he wasn’t so sharp, so _cutting_ in his beauty anymore. He’d started to grow his hair out a while back ( _was that a prerequisite for Curse-Breaking?_ ) and it fell in a long sweep down to his jaw. Harry watched him take the last drag of the cigarette, his cheeks hollowing a little in a way that made Harry’s throat dry. This was the most open Draco had been with him in a while and he hadn’t appreciated just how much he’d missed their easy-going, honest conversation. _I need to help him find a place to stay. Especially as I basically usurped his right to Grimmauld Place._

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, Draco jerking around to meet his eye. “Stay with me!”

Draco frowned. “Pardon?”

“Stay with me, at Grimmauld Place.” Harry cleared his throat. “Since Ron and Hermione moved out, there’s basically a whole floor free. We did the place up really nice. It’s got a much less evil vibe these days. Although, I won’t lie, there is a ghoul that sometimes ends up sticking in the pipes so hot water can be temperamental.” Harry realised he was rambling and promptly pursed his lips to stop the flow of word vomit.

Draco swallowed. “You want me to live with you?”

“Course. We’re friends and you need a place to stay, so why not with me?”

“Friends,” Draco repeated and there was something in the tone, a subtle flatness that reminded Harry of the distance he’d felt from Draco in the last month. He suddenly, desperately, felt a choking sense of loss. He didn’t want to feel like Draco wasn’t _his_ anymore.

“Yes, we _are_ friends. And I have a place for you to stay. For as long as you need – I’m not going to rush you out.” Harry turned to Draco fully, and grabbed his shoulder. “Please, Draco.”

Draco looked at him for a moment, biting his lip unconsciously, before he nodded. “Thank you.”

Harry grinned. He tried not to pay attention to how his heart soared.

-*-

They settled into living together pretty quickly. It surprised Harry how easy it was between them, given their recent month or so of odd distance.

Draco’s shifts varied depending on the projects he was working on and Harry’s training was ramping up as they edged ever closer to their Auror examinations, so they didn’t see each other all that often. But if Draco left the house first, there’d usually be a cup of tea – perfectly milky and just the right amount of sweet – under a stasis charm in the kitchen, waiting for a sleepy Harry to descend on it eagerly. Harry, in return, would stop by the bakery off Diagon on the Saturday mornings that they both had off and grab some of the pastries that made Draco moan in ways that should be illegal. (Not that that was the reason he did it.)

The sweet domesticity of their living arrangement settled something in Harry. He hadn’t really ever had a proper relationship; he and Ginny had never picked up where they left off (she’d told him, the summer before Eighth Year, that the War had given her some perspective about what she really wanted – and it wasn’t boys); the men and women Harry had dated after leaving Hogwarts had never really progressed beyond a few dinner dates and a shag. And he hadn’t really minded - he had been in no real shape to get into a proper relationship with anyone in the aftermath of the War and he’d _only just entered his twenties for fuck’s sake_. He always maintained that there’d be plenty of time for settling down.

But there was something comfortable and _homely_ about having Draco in his house, with his bare feet and his cosy grey cashmere jumper and his silk pyjamas and his special Darjeeling tea in the cupboard and his fancy cheese in the fridge. Harry liked that he’d get the odd owl asking if he wanted to join Draco in a takeaway or a reminder to grab milk on the way home. It sparked a warmth in Harry and he found he could easily imagine having _more_ with Draco.

 _That_ realisation had hit him one Tuesday evening when he walked in to find Draco lounging on the couch, an Ancient Runes text balanced on one knee, the other leg stretched out. He was wearing jogging bottoms and a thick, cosy cable-knit jumper and his hair was pulled into a small, messy bun at the back of his head, a few poker-straight strands cupping his face. (When Harry had first expressed his surprise that Draco owned and wore multiple pairs of _jogging bottoms,_ Draco had simply rolled his eyes and responded that even _his_ balls deserved a break from dinner trousers, firmly thumping Harry on his back when he promptly choked on his tea.)

Harry had settled on the other end of the sofa and unconsciously pulled Draco’s foot into his lap, earning him a slightly raised eyebrow and a small grin that showed off that ridiculous dimple in Draco’s right cheek. And Harry’s heart started beating a mile a minute because in that second, as Draco smiled at him warmly and went back to reading, Harry wanted – with an intensity that burned - to reach over, knock the book from Draco’s hands and devour him in a bruising, claiming kiss. He wanted this to be more than friendship, much _much_ more.

Harry sat there, stunned by the realisation that he might well be arse over tit for _Draco Malfoy_. He looked down to where his thumb was drawing small circles into the paper-thin skin of Draco’s ankle, latte-brown against alabaster, and realised he could lose all of this – the easy way they slotted together as friends and housemates, the perfectly balanced routine they’d fallen into – if his feelings for Draco ended up making things awkward.

So he took a deep breath, tucked all those messy feelings away in the back of his head and tried not to think about Draco’s rosebud mouth or his stupidly clear skin (Harry was twenty-two for fuck’s sake and he _still_ hadn’t outgrown pimples) or the way his t-shirt would ride up when he put the clean dishes away after dinner, revealing two dimples in the small of his back…

Yes, Harry tried very _very_ hard not to think about Draco at all.

-*-

“Pans reckons Draco got on really well with that barista.”

“So?”

“So, don’t you think it’s weird that he hasn’t even owled him since their date?”

“I dunno Gin, maybe Draco liked him but not _like that_.”

“Hmmm, I don’t think so. Apparently, he said the bloke was an incredible kisser. Harry? Where are you going?”

-*-

Harry’s resolve to be a good friend to Draco was tested one Saturday, when Draco asked if he could use his shower.

“That bloody ghoul is back in the pipes and I need to get in to Gringotts by nine, they want us to start working on the items we found in the Avery vault. Most of them are goblin-made so _of course_ it’s a bloody priority.” He rolled his eyes. “You know how I’d rather not use a cleaning charm if it can be avoided.”

Harry – who had woken up precisely three minutes prior to that – took a moment to process all of the words into some semblance of order before nodding and opening his door wider to allow Draco access to the en-suite.

He stumbled down to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea to enjoy back in bed once Draco was done. It had been a long week – the first Auror exam was done - and he was thrilled to have a Saturday off, with nothing planned except a long day of napping, sleeping and keeping his eyes closed for a while.

Less than ten minutes later, he heard the faint sound of the door opening upstairs and grabbed both his mug and the one he’d brewed for Draco, yawning distractedly. As he cleared the last flight of stairs to his floor, the door to his bedroom opened and Draco stepped out with only a towel wrapped around his waist.

Harry froze, his foot on the top step, unable to drag his eyes from all the creamy skin on display. Draco had little brown beauty marks all over his chest and arms, which was flushed a light pink. Three silvery-white scars slashed from shoulder to hip, the placement of them almost an echo of Harry’s lightening bolt. His hair was fluffy, brushing his shoulders, the ends still a tiny bit damp and there was something so _sexy_ about the way his waist had thickened and his shoulders broadened since school that Harry felt his cock fill a little.

“Fuck – I’m sorry – I left my wand on the sink, I thought you’d still be downstairs-” if possible, Draco flushed even harder and gripped the towel around his waist, his other arm coming up to cradle said wand to his chest self-consciously. Harry knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it. “I’ll, uh, just squeeze past you if that’s okay.”

As Draco passed him on the stairs, he left a trail of bergamot and citrus and musk that made Harry’s throat dry and his face flush as the situation in his pants escalated.

Harry rushed into his bedroom and kicked the door shut behind him, both cups of tea still clenched in his hands. He tried very hard to slow his pounding heart, which thundered in his ears and sounded, terrifyingly, like _Dra-co Dra-co Dra-co_.

-*-

“Harry, there’s a really lovely lady who works with me-”

“No thanks, Hermione.”

“But it’s been a while since you’ve been on a date. Maybe you ought to get out there again?”

“Honestly, I’m happy as I am.”

“Is this about Dra-”

“I’ve just remembered I have to be somewhere that isn’t this conversation. Bye.”

-*-

One night, Harry had come downstairs for a glass of water (his _Augmenti_ was pretty terrible for drinking – he couldn’t never quite get the temperature right and it was usually a bit tepid). As he’d passed the front room, he’d spied a leg dangling off the sofa and walked in to find Draco sprawled out, fast asleep. Draco must have been exhausted – Harry recalled something about a four-day trip to the Taynish oakwoods near Argyll  – because he still had his boots on, cloak crumpled on the floor beside the couch.

Harry walked over to the armchair by the fireplace, grabbing the thick Aran blanket that Draco had stylishly flung there when he moved in. As he draped it over Draco, Harry took in the slackness of his face in sleep and the darkness under his eyes. He felt a wash of tenderness that had him biting his lip to keep from doing something stupid, like kissing Draco’s forehead or smoothing a hand through his shimmering hair. He grabbed Draco's cloak to hang up, knowing how irked he'd be if he woke up to find it wrinkled and creased, remembering to avoid the creaky floorboard outside the room.

He woke early the next morning and brought a cup of tea to the front room. As he softly cast a _Stasis_ charm, Draco stirred on the couch and opened his eyes blearily.

“Hello,” he mumbled, looking Harry over confusedly. He sat up slowly, moving a little gingerly.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, holding the tea out. Draco took a sip with a grateful nod before answering.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch.”

“That’s quite alright, it’s your couch too.” Harry took in Draco’s puffy eyes, still a little shadowed, and a scruff of stubble along his jaw just a shade darker than his hair. He swallowed. _Messy suits him too. Some people get all the luck._ “Rough time in Scotland?”

Draco nodded. “Yeah. It takes a fair amount of magical strength to untangle curse-traps and hexes as is, but this place was pretty well warded and I caught the brunt of a blasting curse.” His voice was gravelly and he brought his hand to his ribs. “Couldn’t find the energy to walk up to my room last night. The Floo trip back from Gringotts pretty much did me in.” He set the tea down and ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. “Ugh, I need a long hot bath. Sleeping in a tent, even a wizarding one, always makes me feel grimy to my bones.”

Harry snorted. “You’re such a snob.”

“Git,” Draco responded good-naturedly.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Another cup of tea and some toast would be divine.” Draco finished his tea and stood up slowly, waving Harry off when he reached out a hand to help him down to the kitchen.

“Do you like what you do?” Harry asked him curiously as he started a round of toast.

“Yeah.” Draco put the kettle on. “It feels like I’m – well, not making amends, because I don’t think I can ever make up for what I did – but I’m helping. Doing my bit towards getting rid of any lasting reminders of Voldermort.”

He set Harry’s mug down next to his on the counter and started doling out teabags; PG Tips for Harry and Darjeeling for himself.

“It seems to take a lot out of you,” Harry remarked carefully as he set the toast on the table.

Draco shrugged. “Hazard of the job. At least I’ve got a couple of weeks off now.”

“Got any plans?”

There was a pause as Draco set the two cups of tea on the table and sank down into a dining chair slowly. “I promised Luna I’d go see her and Rolf, see how the Menagerie is doing.”

Harry knew Draco and Luna had a monthly catch up at the animal shelter she owned with her boyfriend, Rolf Scamander.

“That sounds good.” Harry stuffed a triangle of buttered toast in his mouth, wondering how best to phrase what he wanted to say without pissing Draco off – he could still go from nought to pissy in the space of a few mis-spoken words. “Make sure you take it easy for the next couple of weeks, though. I was a bit worried about you last night.”

Draco gave him a small smile and reached over to squeeze his hand. It was only a second of warm, soft pressure, but it set the nerves in Harry’s hand on fire.

“Thanks Harry,” Draco mumbled. “You’re a really good friend.”

Harry refused to acknowledge how his heart sunk a little.

 _Friend._ _Right._

-*-

 “What is _that?”_

Draco looked up from where he lay on the sofa in the front room, a black furry ball curled up on his chest. In fact, Harry’s first thought when he stepped out of the Floo was that he’d gone and bought a new cushion, until the furry thing moved, tail swishing about just once before settling back onto Draco’s chest.

“ _This_ is Basil. Say hi to Harry, Basil.”

The thing on Draco’s chest looked up – revealing itself to be a little cat – and observed him haughtily with its luminous green eyes.

“Oh look, he likes you!” Draco crooned, stroking the side of the cat’s face with one pale finger.

Harry disagreed. Basil was almost certainly plotting his murder.

“Erm, hello Basil.” _Hiss._ “Why do we have a Basil, Draco?”

Draco shifted on the couch a little nervously. “Well, see, the thing is - Basil needs a place to stay.” Harry opened his mouth but Draco cut him off quickly. “Luna said he’d been left in a box outside the Menagerie but she was struggling to find room for him since they took in all those Kneazles a few weeks ago and – well, just look at his _fucking toe beans_ , Potter! How was I supposed to say no?!”

Harry pursed his lips together, trying not to laugh at the bright spots of embarrassment high on Draco’s cheeks as he gently stroked the supremely unconcerned Basil.

“I promise, I’ll look after him. And Hermione’s said she’s happy to take him if I have to work remotely.” Draco stood up, large hands cradling the cat to his chest, and walked over to Harry. “Isn’t he just adorable?”

 _Yes, he is,_ Harry thought as he took in the sight of Draco fucking Malfoy holding a tiny cat like it was the most precious thing in the world. Harry reached out a hand, gingerly, and stroked Basil’s forehead. The cat closed its eyes and preened a little. “Welcome to the house then, Basil.”

Draco’s blinding grin was everything.

-*-

“Mate, you’re basically in a relationship with Malfoy. You’ve even got a fucking cat. Just tell him how you feel.”

“Shut up or I’ll make us run an extra mile.”

-*-

Harry stood shirtless in the kitchen, downing a cup of water, boiling hot from his run. A mirror hung on the wall above the dining table, showing the incredible results Auror training and running had had on Harry’s physique; gone were the bony shoulders, visible ribs and grey paleness of the War – now, Harry’s coffee-and-cream skin glowed with sweat, his arms were strong and muscled, and the dark hair on his chest ran down lean abs, bypassing scars and disappearing under the waistband of his shorts. For the first time in his life, Harry could look at himself and understand that he looked _attractive._

He used his t-shirt to wipe the sweat that ran down his neck, lobbing it into the laundry basket in the adjoining utility room. Briefly considering casting a Cooling Charm, he decided on a second glass of water instead, swallowing heavily with his head tilted all the way back.

A soft _thump_ – followed by an indignant yowl - made him spin around, instinctively defensive, to find Draco stood frozen in the doorway, his gaze trained on Harry’s chest and a book open haphazardly at his feet. Basil stood a foot away, casting a disgusted look at the book.

“Draco?”

Wide grey eyes flew up to his own and before he could say anything else, Draco bent down to grab his book and left the room with a softly snide, “put some clothes on, Harry, it’s not a Witch Weekly photoshoot.”

Harry sighed as Basil stalked over to him, wrapping around his legs and meowing despondently.

“I hear you, Bas. I know exactly how you feel.”

-*-

“ _No_ fucking way,” Harry laughed, his shoulder brushing Draco’s as they sat on the couch, devouring Chinese food. “Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint were not shagging each other. Surely I would’ve known if _that_ was going on.”

Draco chuckled. “You didn’t even know Thomas and Finnegan were at it and they were in your bloody dorm.”

“Bugger off,” Harry responded good-naturedly. “I was focused on surviving the annual murder attempt.” He offered Draco a spring roll from the takeaway box. “Were Slytherin a horny lot then?”

“By Sixth Year we were all incredibly talented at privacy charms.”

Harry chuckled. “Dirty sods.”

“Not the worse we’ve been called,” Draco grinned, pushing his box of chow mein away with a satisfied sigh.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Draco nodded, leaning his head back on the sofa. Basil jumped up into his lap with a chirp, turning around a couple of times before settling on a snoozing spot. Harry smiled at them fondly.

“You had a question, Harry?”

“Oh, right, yeah. Are you going to have another date with that barista?”

“Not sure.” Draco smoothed a finger over Basil’s forehead. “Aiden was rather lovely but I think I’d rather wait for the right person. That sounds so ridiculous from a bloke in his early twenties, but it’s just who I am. I’m still that bratty child that wants the best and nothing less.” He looked over at Harry, his grey eyes wide and warm. “Don’t make fun of me or I’ll set Basil on you.”

Harry snorted and reached over to give the ferocious monster a little pet. “It’s okay not to want to date all the time. I don’t know how many times I’ve told Hermione I’m not interested in being set up.”

“Not looking for anything right now then?”

He shook his head, swallowing the massive bite of sweet and sour chicken he’d just taken. “Nah, I’m happy to just focus on getting through this last year of Auror training.”

“That’s a shame,” Draco mumbled. Harry’s heart tripped before Draco continued quickly, “for the readers of Witch Weekly I mean. Britain’s Most Eligible Batchelor another year running and he doesn’t want to date.”

“Shut it, you prat.” Finished with his food, Harry leaned back next to Draco, their shoulders touching. “Seriously though, it’s fine not to date, but don’t shut yourself off from opportunities. That person you’re looking for could be right in front of you.” _Literally. I’m right here._ “It would be a shame for you to miss out on a chance to be happy.”

Grey eyes met green and Harry realised just how close they were sitting. He could see the different colours in Draco’s eyelashes, the fine lines under his eyes from late nights, the ridiculously smooth quality of the skin on his cheeks and the way his deep grey eyes were shot through with silver swirls. It almost seemed like Draco was leaning in ever so slightly. Harry felt a puff of breath ghost over his cheek and he licked his lips, Draco’s eyes flicking down to look-

“Mrrrreeeeaaaaaw.”

Draco jerked his head back and looked down at Basil, who’d stood up on his hind legs to lick a stripe across his chin. He meowed again, bunting his forehead to Draco’s cheek.

“Come on, then, you hellion,” Draco smiled ruefully at Basil. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

As he walked off to the kitchen, Harry thumped his head back on the sofa and bit back a groan.

_Did I just get cockblocked by a cat?  
_

-*-

“We’re the first ones here,” Harry laughed as they wove their way to their usual table at the back of the Leaky. “I think we might end up messy tonight. It’s a shame you wore your fancy sweater.”

Draco chuckled and took a sip of his wine. “ _You_ might end up messy, but I’m actually shooting off in a bit. Aiden and I are going for dinner.”

“Aiden?” Harry’s voice came out a little shaky. “The barista?”

Draco nodded, fiddling with his wine glass. “I thought about what you said and you were right, there’s no point in waiting for that perfect person to come along. Even if there _was_ a perfect person for me, there’s no saying they’d be dating or available or what have you. I could end up missing out on a good thing because I waited on nothing.”

Harry’s stomach dropped and he tried to school his features into something casual. _Of course he didn’t get that my vague and cryptic wording before our weird moment of sexually-charged tension was actually me telling him that we should be together._

“It’s not exactly like I’m beating the boys from my door,” Draco continued with a little self-deprecating laugh, completely oblivious to Harry’s mini-trauma next to him.

“You’re so frustrating,” Harry said before he even realised he was talking. “You don’t even see how bloody attractive you are.” He instantly wished the ground would open up and swallow him when Draco blushed violently and his sharp grey gaze met Harry’s.

“Harry, I-”

“Wotcher, boys!” A pint thumped down onto the table and Harry almost fainted in relief. _Thank Merlin for Ron Weasley._

-*-

“He’s gone on a date with that Aiden bloke. _Aiden._ Stupid name.”

“I mean, it’s not that stupid.”

“No, s’pose not. Draco and Aiden. _Aiden and Draco_. Urgh. Who drank my drink?”

“You did, mate.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous, Ron.”

“You did, I saw. You know, you should just tell him how you feel.”

“Can’t. We’re _friends._ ”

“So were me and ‘Mione.”

“ _Oh my god so were you and Herm- Hemy- Miney!_ ”

“Yes. Wait, where’re you goin’?”

“I’m’a go tell ‘im. I’m gonna go and- oh fuck, I’m gonna be sick.”

“Oi Ron, why’d Harry look so green?”

-*-

Harry stumbled out of the Floo, his mouth still stinging from an over-enthusiastic cleaning charm. He was going to sit right there on the couch and wait for Draco to get home from his date.

_Thud._

Well, the couch was certainly not where he thought it would be.

“Harry?”

“Dracoooooooooo!” Harry smiled at the sight before him: Draco in his silly silk pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt, his hair loose around his shoulders, a cup of water in his hand and that darn cat doing figure-of-eights around his bare feet. It was so _perfect_ and Harry _burned_ with how much he wanted to fold himself into Draco’s arms and never leave. The moment was broken, however, when he hiccupped violently.

Draco frowned a little and came to stand over where Harry was sprawled on the floor. Basil sniffed at Harry before slinking off when he discovered a lack of treats. “You really did get messy didn’t you?”

“Well, you went on a _date_ \- wait, why are you back from your date already?”

"It ended," Draco responded curtly as he pulled Harry up onto the couch and placed the glass of water in front of him. “Here, drink.” Harry reached up and pulled a ribbon of glimmering silver hair through his fingers. _So soft._ He hadn’t even realised he’d spoken out loud until Draco chuckled and said gently, “I make my own conditioner. Secret recipe. Maybe I’ll let you have some sometime.”

When he finished the glass of water, Draco grabbed Harry’s arm and dragged him to a standing position. “Right, come on, you, let’s get you to bed.”

“Yes, please,” Harry slurred in what he hoped was a seductive tone. “Let’s go to bed.” He frowned when Draco snorted in response. "Why's'at funny? Wanna go to bed with you."

With a hand firmly wrapped around his waist, Draco supported a swaying Harry up the stairs and into his room, allowing him to collapse into a heap in the middle of his bed. _Ah, heaven._

“Shoes off, you sod,” Draco muttered, pulling at Harry’s trainers when he failed to move.

Harry wriggled his toes once they were free and sighed in pleasure as a blanket was pulled up over him. “You’re so lovely,” he murmured sleepily.

He wasn’t sure when he started dreaming, but he could have sworn he felt a warm press of lips to his forehead and a whispered _goodnight, Harry_ floating through the darkness.

-*-

“Coffee?”

“Mmmm.”

“I think we need to talk, Harry.”

“Alright.”

-*-

Harry’s hangover had melted away – thanks to a hangover potion and a coffee chaser – by the time he joined Draco at the kitchen table, grinning a little sheepishly.

“Hey,” he said, sitting opposite Draco. He twisted his hands in his lap, feeling a little nervous. “How was last night?”

Draco shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee. “It was okay.” He swallowed and looked around the kitchen, gnawing gently on his lower lip. “He’s really nice. Aiden, I mean. Funny and handsome and he sees past the Death Eater stuff. He’s perfect, really-”

“Okay, Draco, look,” Harry cut in, finally unable to hold his feelings back anymore. “I know we’re friends, and I should be happy for you, that you’ve found this great bloke, but I need to tell you something because I don’t think I can stand it anymore.” He took a breath. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you. Well, not think – I _know_ I have. I wasn’t ready to admit I fancied you back in Eighth Year, because I had to work a load of stuff out. But since getting to know you, being friends and living together…you’re just everything I want.” Harry flicked his eyes up to Draco’s face. He looked pretty astounded, his massive grey eyes wide and a flush high on his cheeks. “You’re funny and smart and you’re still a massive git sometimes, but you also bring home stray cats and you work hard and you look after me when I’m a drunken menace. I love coming home and finding you here. And you’re really fucking sexy. And you make the perfect cup of tea.” He blew a breath out. “And I think, if we gave this a chance – Draco, I think we’d really _really_ work.”

Harry reached across the table tentatively and wound his fingers through Draco’s. He was heartened when he felt Draco’s fingers curling up around his own.

“And I know we’re friends-”

“I don’t want to be _friends_.” There it was, that slightly off tone again, the one Harry hadn’t heard since the night Draco agreed to move in with him. And suddenly, it hit him that maybe these _feelings_ hadn’t been quite as one-sided as he thought. “I…” he swallowed and stood up, walking over to the sink and washing his cup up the muggle way. When he spoke again, it was so soft Harry barely heard him over the sound of the tap. “I want to be more. I’ve wanted to be _more_ for a long time.”

Harry followed him over to the sink and reached around Draco, shutting the tap off and gently pulling the mug from his soapy hand and setting it down. He rested his forehead in between Draco’s shoulders, inhaling that intoxicating bergamot-citrus-musk scent, allowing his hands to drift to Draco’s waist.

“What if this goes wrong?”

Harry sighed, took a small step back, allowing Draco to turn around and face him.

“I can’t say it won’t go wrong.” Harry swallowed. “But I want to try. And if you do too, we’ll find a way to make this work.”

Draco looked at him for a long moment. “What about the press? Or our friends? Or my mother or _Molly Weasley_ or-”

“Do you want this?”

Draco nodded. “So much,” he breathed.

“Then that’s all that matters to me.” Harry tugged him forward by his t-shirt and cupped his face with one hand, the other sliding back down to his waist.

He brushed his thumb over Draco's lower lip lightly, mouth falling open on a breathy exhale. _Merlin, that’s a sinful sight._

“Can I kiss you?”

“Okay,” Draco whispered, his voice sounding shaky. Harry’s hand tightened on his waist as he pressed his mouth to Draco’s, and then he was overwhelmed with sensations: Draco’s mouth was hot, his chest solid and his stomach soft when it pressed against Harry’s. When Draco’s tongue stroked along his, Harry let out a low, muffled moan and moved his hands down to _oh god, Draco’s arse_. When he felt fingers slide under his t-shirt and lips move down to his throat, Harry thought he might catch on fire from how hot his blood felt in his veins. And when their erections pressed together, his eyes rolled back and he had to bite his lip to stop himself coming in his pants like a teenager. They stumbled up the stairs to the first floor, to Harry’s bedroom, dropping kisses and clothes as they went.

Later, when Harry lay tangled in Draco’s arms, he couldn’t help the grin that stretched his face and the way his heart felt full and content as it beat with wild abandon in his chest, sounding like a joyful mantra of _Dra-co Dra-co Dra-co._


End file.
